


Sherlollipops - Here It Is, Christmas Again

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [39]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:24:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first Christmas after the four-minute exile, and Molly Hooper needs answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - Here It Is, Christmas Again

**Author's Note:**

> For sammy-batch over on tumblr, who was my 1212th follower and simply requested "Sherlolly".

It was ridiculous to have a cocktail party when one of the guests was less than a year old, but Mary insisted and Sherlock bowed to the inevitable, telling himself it had absolutely nothing to do with the excitement Molly Hooper showed when he told her about it.

But then, Sherlock Holmes had always been very good at lying to himself.

He was reluctantly wiping down the newly-cleared kitchen table when he heard footsteps on the stairs; the tapping of high heels combined with a certain amount of hesitancy between each step told him who it was before he entered the parlor in order to act the proper host and greet her. Even though, he noted with a faint frown, she was a good hour early for the so-called ‘festivities’.

His much-practiced ‘welcoming smile’ faded as soon as she stepped fully into the room and removed her coat. The same coat, he noted, that she’d worn at the first – and last, until now – Christmas party ever held at Baker Street. He stilled, watching narrowly as Molly hung up her coat, taking in every detail. She was holding a large, cheerful Christmas bag in one hand with presents piled inside, the top one wrapped with meticulous care, topped by a bright red bow that matched her cheerful red lipstick.

_Shade of red echoes the lipstick. Either a subconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage._

His long-ago words rose unbidden to the forefront of his mind. She’d deliberately evoked that particular Christmas, there was no other way to interpret what he saw. The same black heels, the same silver bow in her hair – well, perhaps a different bow, but the same size and type – the same hairstyle, the same excess of jewelry.

The same slinky black cocktail dress with the same silver accents. It even looked like the same black bra revealed beneath the thin straps of the dress, but he wouldn’t swear to that much.

She said nothing as he examined her, but the expression on her face spoke volumes. Determination coupled with nervousness. Resolve and uncertainty. She’d recreated her appearance in meticulous detail, and arrived at the flat an hour early, because Molly Hooper very much wanted to provoke a reaction from him.

He cleared his throat. Opened his mouth. Shut it. Cleared his throat again. Gazed at her helplessly.

Molly took pity on him; stepping closer, stopping barely two feet away from him, she looked up and softly said two words. 

“Deduce me.”

Sherlock swallowed, then, lips compressed in a firm line, nodded once, sharply, before fixing her with his gaze again. When he spoke, his voice was a husky octave lower than normal. “Miss Hooper has love on her mind.”

She nodded, took a tiny step closer. “Are Miss Hooper’s long-term hopes truly forlorn? Because she really, really needs to know, Sherlock. She needs to know for certain if all there will ever be is friendship, so she can try and lay those hopes to rest.”

He took the next step, reaching out and taking her hand in his, softly intertwining their fingers. This was his fault, he’d brought her to this moment by his actions during the Moriarty Incident. He’d kissed her, then run off like a frightened child, hiding behind the Work and the driving need to discover the truth about the person holding England – the entire UK – hostage during a reign of terror as unsubtle as it was effective. That it hadn’t proved to be a returned-from-the-dead Jim Moriarty had been a relief, but discovering the identity of the imposter – a murderously vindictive relative of Lord Moran, who had died in prison while Sherlock was dealing with Magnussen – had been even more of a relief.

And yet he’d not acted on his newly-recognized romantic feelings for Miss Molly Hooper even after the dust had settled. Hadn’t allowed her to bring up The Kiss, had changed the subject or rudely ended the conversation every time she’d tried. So here they were, three months after the fact, and she’d drawn a line in the proverbial sand.

Put up or shut up, he believed the American saying went. Either tell her that her hopes are, indeed, forlorn, that they are now and will never be anything but friends…or tell her the truth.

He let out his breath in a soft sigh, closed the remaining distance between them, and laid his forehead against hers, his arm warm around her shoulders, her free hand resting on his hip. He closed his eyes before speaking. “I am sorry. Forgive me.”

“Either way – whether this is you letting me down gently or you telling me…whatever this is, of course I forgive you,” she said softly, then moved her head and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek. “I just…I need to know, Sherlock. One way or the other. I need to know.”

He pulled back, released his grip on her only to move his hands so they were gently cradling her head. Her eyes fluttered shut as he leaned down and pressed a loving kiss to her lips. When it ended her eyes were wide open, meeting his squarely. “This is me admitting to how I feel,” he said. “This is me telling you that your hopes are not now nor have they ever actually been ‘forlorn’. This is me saying…” His voice caught, and he found himself once again gazing at her helplessly, willing her to say what he needed to allow him to continue.

As always, he could count on Molly Hooper not to let him down. She reached up and brushed her fingers through the curls tumbling over his brow – he was in desperate need of a haircut – and said, “I love you, Sherlock.”

“And I love you,” he said, taking the fall and confident that she would always be there to catch him. “Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.”


End file.
